


JWP 2019 #30: Hurt's Over, Time to Comfort

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Aftermath of Injury, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-27 18:17:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20050444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: Watson reflects on the aftereffects of injury. Written for JWP 2019 #30.





	JWP 2019 #30: Hurt's Over, Time to Comfort

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Боль прошла, пришло время утешать](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24976726) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)

> Warnings: Very little plot. A lot of schmoop. Injury and reaction thereunto. Possibly out of character for both of them, depending on how you see them and their characters. And written in a complete rush. You have been warned.
> 
> Prompt: Hurt's Over, Time to Comfort: Watson's been whumped (off-screen). How does Holmes and/or another take care of the situation afterward?

Holmes reacts ferociously on those rare occasions when I am hurt in the course of one of his cases. I have not always been witness to this. Twice I was unconscious, once I was rattled enough to be functionally witless, and sometimes I have been too distracted with other details to truly observe the result. But I have seen enough, and been told enough by our friends in the Yard, to know the depth of his rage at those who have caused me harm, and to understand it as a reflection of his loyalty and regard for me.

And like a carnival mirror, the reflection is twisted and changed, even more so in the after-reaction than at the time. For while he is often solicitous in the immediate aftermath, and has never failed to offer assistance and care when needed, Holmes becomes even more reserved than is his usual wont. He does not absent himself physically any more than is usual, but he is generally silent. Conversation lags and falters when it begins at all. He observes me from his chemistry-table or from a chair furthest from wherever I happen to be, rather than the one closest. And the casual touches – a friendly hand on the shoulder, a proffered arm when walking – are completely absent.

He is the detective, but I am no amateur diagnostician. I understand the ailment, and treat it as soon as I can. This time it was a struggle and a fall from a moving train that provoked my friend. For half an hour – until the train could be brought to a halt and backed up to where the culprit and I had fallen – Holmes feared me badly hurt or dead. My assailant was severely injured, but through luck and chance, I escaped with little more than a badly wrenched knee and an assortment of bruises. It took several days before we were able to return to Baker Street. In all that time, Holmes was distant, remote.

I waited until after the supper dishes had been cleared, and Mrs Hudson and her kindly attentions had retired for the evening, before I acted. I braced my arms against the sofa and started to lever myself upwards off the couch. As I expected, the maneuver caught Holmes’ attention, and better yet, brought him to my side.

“Watson, you should not attempt to rise unassisted…” Holmes’ words cut off as I took advantage of his proximity to tug him down to the sofa along with myself. My knee protested the stratagem, but I had far more important hurts to address. I brought my arms around Holmes’ shoulder and leaned his head against my chest.

My friend resisted for a moment before squirming rather like an eel and bringing his lean frame fully onto the sofa, nestled against my own. Once again I was grateful we had such a sturdy and generously-sized bit of furniture in our sitting-room. Not every sofa can accommodate two grown men, but Holmes and I can arrange ourselves together on this one. I felt Holmes’ wiry arms creep around to hold me firmly to him, or him to me. It was much the same thing.

“You should be tending to yourself, not to me.” Holmes’ voice was muffled, his face still pressed against my chest. This close, I could feel the fine tremors vibrating through him, a string wound too tightly and in danger of snapping entirely. In defiance of his words, his grasp grew stronger.

I ran one hand through his sable hair. “My dear man,” I chided gently. “Who says I am not?”

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted July 30, 2019.


End file.
